


In This Wild Place

by crowned_stag



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-11 07:51:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/476264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crowned_stag/pseuds/crowned_stag
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To try and find something to help with Jackson's transformations, Stiles and Derek team up one night. Something sparks between them, no matter how much they want to pretend they don't notice. <em>(Somewhat AU: Jackson isn't being controlled by someone else -- he just has problems controlling himself.)</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	In This Wild Place

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally going to be a very short, lighthearted fic, but when I was writing it, it sort of tripled in size and got a little angsty in the middle, before turning into a complete fluff fest at the end. Either way, I really hope anyone who reads it enjoys it! I had fun writing it, so hopefully you have fun reading it. :)

Stiles feels a little silly.

Sure, he does a lot of inane things most of the time, but he feels like this one is right at the top of the list.

 Traipsing around the woods at night isn’t exactly something he’s against, not at all ― but traipsing around the woods with actual Alpha Derek Hale, looking for a magical herb that he’s never heard of? Yeah, silly.

He stumbles. He doesn’t know what even makes him stumble, he just does. He lurches towards Derek who he’s been marching behind, smacks his chin into Derek’s shoulder, and Derek comes to a stop. He turns slowly towards Stiles, his lips pursed and jaw clenched in his all too familiar bitchface, and Stiles backs away, straightening his hoodie. Derek’s shoulder was rock hard and Stiles’ chin stings a little, but he fights the urge to rub it. Instead, he rolls his eyes.

“God, _sorry_ ,” he says. “Maybe if a certain someone would remember that not everyone has his werewolf dexterity and that maybe normal humans like me needs to take breaks more often.”

“Maybe if a certain someone else would stop talking and concentrate on what we’re here for,” Derek says.

“For your information, I wasn’t talking. I wasn’t even _thinking_ about talking. In fact, what I was thinking about ―”

“You were quiet for four minutes and twenty-six seconds. Must be a world record,” Derek throws in, tone low.

“― was how ridiculous this is, and how this is probably the dumbest idea you’ve ever had. We’re never going to find this thing.”

Derek glares at him. Stiles raises his eyebrows challengingly ― before he remembers that he’s in the middle of the woods, in the middle of nowhere, with a werewolf that still kind of scares him a little bit. He ducks his head sheepishly, and Derek turns back to continue walking.

The woods are thick and dense, and Derek apparently isn’t one to follow the beaten path. Stiles keeps looking at the ground, hoping to find some sort of trail or purchase that makes it easier for him to follow Derek, but there’s nothing – just an uneven forest floor of leaves and sticks and roots. Stiles had even walked into a thorny shrub at one point, and Derek had simply stopped and watched as Stiles had fought it off all on his own.

Derek’s betas are recuperating from the full moon ― they’d begged to come, and Stiles had begged for them to come so that he didn’t have to, but Derek had very crossly told them they’d only slow him down. Scott’s with Deaton, trying to figure out more about how they can better defend themselves against Jackson _without_ hurting him, Allison is doing whatever Allison does when she’s not with Scott, and Lydia ― Stiles can’t even keep up with Lydia these days. Which sucks.

And just how did Stiles get roped into this? He’d been at home, typing up a report for school, and Derek had done that thing ― you know, the magically-appearing-like-a-ninja thing. He’d grunted about some herb he knew about that might help Jackson to control himself, and then he’d simply said, “Come on.” Stiles had tried to argue but Derek had slipped out the window before he’d gotten one word of protest out.

What choice had Stiles had but to follow? Oh yeah, and then Derek had demanded they take the Jeep. Which had almost been out of gas. And when Stiles had stopped at the gas station ― much to Derek’s misplaced annoyance ― Derek didn’t even offer to pay.

“You know, this is like a _really_ crappy date,” Stiles says, shoving his hands in his hoodie pockets, “Except, I don’t even get to hope for a kiss at the end of the night because it’s not even a real date. I get that hunting is sort of your thing, being a werewolf and all, and I know you probably spend a lot of time out here, sniffing trees and marking your territory, but this _sucks_.”

“You want to help Jackson?” Derek asks over his shoulder.

Which makes Stiles feel a little guilty for complaining. But only a little. “You know I do,” he says after a beat. Then he sighs. “Why couldn’t someone else do this?”

“I’m the only one who knows what it looks like.”

“You could have described it. Drew a picture. Aren’t all broody guys good at art?” Stiles asks. Then he shakes his head. “And that’s not even what I meant. I meant, why did you get _me_? Why do you need me to help you?”

Derek stops and Stiles almost runs into him, letting out a huff of indignation. Derek turns to him, eyebrows raised just a little and he gives a small shake of his head, the movement more akin to a shrug than anything. “Why wouldn’t I ask you?”

“ _Ask_?” Stiles echoes. “You mean ‘bark an order at,’ right? I didn’t hear you _asking_ me anything, pal.”

Derek purses his lips, looking like he’s fighting the urge to roll his eyes. “I’d hoped you’d take this seriously. More seriously than the others,” he says. “That’s why I… _barked an order at_ you.”

“Oh, well have I been serious enough for you tonight, Der?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“I’ll call you whatever I want. You’re an expensive date ― my tank isn’t cheap to fill, you know. If I want to call you Rover, I’ll call you Rover. Or Spot. Or freaking Fido, if I want,” Stiles says.

A low rumbling stirs in Derek’s chest, not quite a growl, but definitely a threat, and Stiles cringes, raising his hands defensively. Derek glares at him for a moment, and then jerks his head towards a clump of brush. “Help me.”

He drops to his knees and thrusts his hands into the brush, and Stiles makes a slight face as he watches. Derek rummages around, pushing aside leaves and twisting vine-like twigs, and God knows what else, and Stiles flexes his fingers at his sides. He doesn’t really want to battle with anymore shrubbery tonight. But then Derek pauses and looks over his shoulder. His eyebrows go up, and a gleam of warning passes through his eyes.

Stiles sighs and crouches beside Derek. He pushes his sleeves up and soon he and Derek are both digging through the undergrowth.

“So we’re looking for yellowish leaves?” Stiles asks.

“Oblong-shaped.” Derek nods.

“Can’t you just say rectangular? Come on, guy.”

Derek ignores the remark. “It’s kind of prickly and spiny,” he says instead. “Smells bitter.”

Stiles falls silent as they search. He gasps when a spider crawls across the top of his hand, and he flails his whole arm like he’s trying to get water off of it. Derek glances at him, only one of his eyebrows going up this time, and Stiles murmurs unintelligibly, shaking his head. He deals with werewolves on a regular daily basis ― he thinks he’s allowed to be afraid of spiders.

“Somehow,” he says, “When I think of Derek Hale on a Thursday night, I don’t envision him in the woods digging for flowers.”

“Not a flower.”

“ _Herb_ , whatever. It’s kind of funny, actually.”

Derek grabs a clump of wet dead leaves and whatever else is in this brush, and he tosses it aside, looking almost like a dog digging for a bone, and it takes everything in Stiles not to laugh out loud. He bites his bottom lip to keep from uttering a sound. When Derek glances up at him, he fears for a brief moment that Derek can in some way read his mind.

But then Derek says, in a tone so very mocking that it’s almost painful, “You think about me a lot then?”

Stiles makes a face. “I don’t think about you any more or any less than you probably think about Scott or me,” he says haughtily, turning his nose up.

Derek nods and goes back to shoving through the thicket. Stiles watches him for a moment, frowning, and then he too goes back to searching for the herb. The answer to Derek’s question is, of course, _yes_. He thinks about Derek so much that he’s almost obsessed with the guy ― but that’s just because he’s a freaking _werewolf Alpha_ , okay? He’s allowed to be obsessed. Up until recently, he couldn’t even imagine that things like Derek existed.

And maybe Derek’s pecs and shoulders make Stiles want to kill himself, and maybe his cheekbones and jaw line turn Stiles green with envy, and maybe, just maybe, Stiles likes to imagine what it would be like to look even half as nice as Derek. But he isn’t obsessed. He isn’t.

Stiles’ fingers suddenly brush against something spiky, and he pulls his phone out quickly, using the illumination from the screen to see. The plant he’s found is definitely yellowish, with _rectangular_ leaves, and a giddy sort of excitement comes over him.

“I got it!” he exclaims like a child.

“Don’t rip it out!” is Derek’s snappish remark.

“Hold on to your man panties, Fido,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes.

“The roots are what we need,” Derek says. He moves closer to Stiles, and even hobbling on his knees looks graceful when he does it. Stiles wants to punch him. He reaches down to where Stiles is still holding his phone in one hand, and the herb in the other. “Here.”

He nudges aside Stiles’ hand with his own, and then he digs around the plant. Stiles holds his phone for light, even though he knows Derek’s got great eyesight in the dark ― werewolf and all ― and finally, Derek pulls up the herb, roots intact. He holds it up in front of his face, studying it like he’s suddenly become a botanist, and Stiles realizes that he’s studying Derek’s profile in the same manner.

Maybe he _is_ a little obsessed. The dim moonlight just works freaking magic on Derek’s sharp, angular face, God damnit.

“Is that it?” Stiles asks.

Derek inhales deeply, nodding. He then holds it up in front of Stiles’ face. “What’s it smell like to you?”

Stiles feels stupid, but he takes a big whiff anyway. At first, the scent of the herb is hard to describe ― it’s bitter and dry, with a little spice. But it also smells like it’s burnt, like when his dad sometimes forgets to wash the coffee pot out for a few days.

“A lot of different things,” he answers. “But you’re sure this is what we need?”

Derek  nods again. He suddenly climbs to his feet, the motion fluid, and Stiles nearly falls all over himself to stand as well. Derek whips a Ziploc baggie out of his back pocket and Stiles almost laughs at that ― where exactly do you keep plastic bags when you live in an abandoned subway car?

He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t need another growly warning tonight.

Derek carefully places the plant in the bag, closes it up tight, and then hands it to Stiles. Stiles’ brow furrows, and he holds it out like it’s a bomb that’s getting ready to explode any second.

“Hold onto it,” Derek says, like he can’t believe he has to tell Stiles that.

“Why me?”

“I can trust you not to lose it.” Derek shrugs, and then turns and starts back the way they’d come.

Stiles hesitates. Something in what Derek said makes him feel… odd. It feels weird to have Derek Hale, resident stalker and Alpha werewolf, tell you that he trusts you ― and to say it so simply, like he doesn’t even have to think about it. Especially since he himself didn’t really trust Derek too much. At least, he didn’t think he did. Well, maybe a little.

After shoving the bagged plant into his hoodie pocket, he bounds after Derek. He stumbles again ― God knows over what ― and he has to grab onto one of Derek’s arms so that he doesn’t fall. Derek doesn’t react, just keeps walking, and Stiles falls into a quick, hurried step behind him.

“So yeah, this was fun,” Stiles says. “I hope you know where you’re going.”

“I marked that tree earlier,” Derek says.

Stiles bugs his eyes out, but then realizes that Derek is actually _smirking_. He gives Stiles a little look that says, ‘See, I can joke too,’ and Stiles rolls his eyes. If he and Derek were any closer ― say, as close as he and Scott, maybe ― he may have tried to punch Derek in the shoulder, just for fun. But he’s not quite sure what Derek’s reaction would be, so he forgets the idea.

“So what do we do now?” he asks after a few minutes of silent trekking. He’s out of breath, starting to sweat, and he really wants a hot shower and his bed. “Get him to eat it or something?”

Derek doesn’t answer for a moment, and then quite honestly, he admits, “I don’t know. I’m going to talk to Deaton about it.”

Stiles nods. “Guess that’s as good a ― hey!” He runs into Derek’s back as Derek suddenly comes to a halt, and he has to grab Derek again so that he doesn’t fall on the unlevel ground.

“ _Shut up_ ,” Derek growls.

Stiles can feel the color drain away from his face. Derek’s whole body has gone stiff, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, and if he were a dog, his ears would have definitely been perked up. Stiles knows that look. That look means T-R-O-U-B-L-E.

Suddenly, Derek grabs him by the collar of his hoodie and thrusts Stiles in front of him, pushing him forward. Stiles stumbles, but Derek’s grasp is vice-like, and he keeps him upright. The trees are getting thinner and thinner, and after a moment, Stiles can actually see the Jeep.

“Derek ―”

“ _Don’t_.” Another growl. So Stiles shuts up again.

And then he hears it. The kanima’s roar. Freaking Jackson Whittemore.

Derek gives him a sudden rough shove towards the Jeep, and when Stiles turns to glance at him, Derek’s eyes are red. When he snaps at Stiles, telling him to get to the Jeep already, his fangs are extended too ― he transforms fully in front of Stiles. Not that Stiles has any faith in him against the kanima, who, you know, poisons people with one freaking slash.

“Come on, don’t pretend to be a hero,” Stiles says, grabbing one of Derek’s arms. Derek shakes him off with a snarl and Stiles can’t help but roll his eyes despite the situation.

He hurries towards the Jeep, pulling his keys out of his pocket. He’d parked on the shoulder of the deserted road, passenger side facing the woods, and he quickly unlocks the door. As he turns to look for Derek, he whips his cell phone out again, ready to call Scott or… or Scott ― damnit, he hopes Scott answers, as he’s the only one Stiles trusts enough to call. But before he can dial, he realizes that, wouldn’t you know it, he has no reception up here.

“ _Derek_ ,” he groans. Could they really not find this herb anywhere else in Beacon Hills?

Suddenly, the kanima lunges from the top of a tree, landing on Derek and taking him to the ground, but without wasting any time, the Alpha throws Jackson off of him, Simba-versus-Scar style from the end of _The Lion King_. Derek’s on his feet in moments, as is Jackson, and the two circle each other like the predators that they are.

Stiles turns quickly and throws the cell into the Jeep, tossing it up onto the dashboard. Should he get in the Jeep and lock the doors? Should he get in and drive towards Jackson, maybe scare him away so that he and Derek can escape? Should he do _anything_? With a little huff, he climbs up into the car and scrambles into the driver’s seat, and then he lays on the horn.

Both Derek and the kanima look up, and Stiles taps the horn like he’s trying to communicate to them in Morse code or something. The kanima takes a step towards the Jeep, and with another snarl, Derek grabs it by the tail and swings it like he’s in the damned Olympics, throwing Jackson a good few feet away.

“ _Go_!” he shouts at Stiles.

And come on, like Stiles is _really_ going to leave him there on his own. Stiles holds his hands up in a questioning, shrug-like gesture, and Derek looks pissed. But then the kanima is _right there_ and Stiles feels so dumb because _yet again_ , it’s his fault that Derek gets paralyzed by Jackson and his stupid toxin.

“Oh boy,” Stiles murmurs.

Derek curses, clapping a hand over the back of his neck where Jackson’s scratched him, and then he crumples to the ground like a ragdoll. The kanima looks back at the Jeep, no interest in Derek anymore, and Stiles can’t help the small, near whine that leaves his throat. As Jackson slowly starts to near the Jeep, scuttling creepily on his reptilian legs, Stiles moves back into the passenger seat so that he can pull the door shut and lock it.  

The kanima stops instantly, like it’s smart enough to realize that it’s not getting past the door, and then it turns and flees back into the cover of the trees. Stiles isn’t going to remark on how weird it is that Jackson chose to run when he could simply use his super lizard strength to pull the Jeep door off its hinges ― he doesn’t want to jinx himself. So instead, he just sits there, his hand hovering over the lock, and his gaze fixed on Derek.

Moments pass. Nothing happens.

After what feels like an eternity, Stiles figures it’s safe to move again. He unlocks the door and slides out of the Jeep as silently as he can. He pauses and strains his ear to hear something ― anything ― but all is silent. He creeps to Derek’s prone form.

“I told you to run,” Derek hisses. He’s back to his human form.

“And in case you didn’t know what _this_ meant ―” Stiles says, repeating his shrug-like gesture from moments ago, “― it meant I wasn’t leaving without you.”

“It’s not gone,” Derek says.

Stiles looks up. He sweeps his gaze over the line of trees, searching for scaly skin or yellow eyes, but he sees nothing. He’s not going to doubt Derek though ― what with his spidey senses and all.

“Come on,” Stiles says. He bends and shoves his arms under Derek, grabbing him under the armpits. He tries to drag Derek and a sharp pain goes through his back, making him grunt. “Oh God, you’re like made of freaking steel and marble or something. This is ten times harder than trying to keep your stupid head afloat in the pool.”

Derek grunts. Stiles isn’t quite sure what it means.

Somehow, Stiles is able to begin dragging Derek across the leaf-strewn ground. He’s heavy ― so freaking heavy ― and he’s grunting each time Stiles accidentally drags him over a rock or something. Stiles wants to tell him to stuff it, to say that he couldn’t do much better if their roles were reversed, but he’s red in the face and out of breath from all the exertion, so he doesn’t waste his energy bickering with Derek.

When they reach the Jeep, Stiles sets Derek down on the ground and climbs into the passenger seat, needing a break. He relaxes against the back of the seat and fans himself, chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath.

“Well that helped,” Derek says.

“Oh, it’s so easy for you to be sarcastic,” Stiles says between deep breaths. “You got to lay down the entire time.”

After a long, long moment, Stiles climbs back out of the Jeep and decides it’s time to try and get Derek into the passenger seat. Again, he grabs him under the armpits and heaves, and Derek grinds his teeth together, looking very much like he’s trying to help in whatever way he can ― and that kind of makes Stiles feel a little better.

Amazingly, he gets Derek into the passenger seat. Derek falls backwards until he’s stretched out across the driver’s seat as well, and his legs are still hanging out of the Jeep, but hey! Progress!

Stiles puts a hand against the side of the Jeep and nods. “We’re getting there,” he pants.

Next, he turns Derek in the seat, putting his legs inside the car and sitting him upright. Derek’s head lolls a little against the headrest, and he looks at Stiles with a very bizarre expression on his face ― one Stiles doesn’t have the time or energy to try and place. He grabs the seatbelt and leans over Derek so that he can click it on, knowing that it’ll keep him mostly upright should he start to slide.

“Not so hard, was it?” Stiles asks, despite the fact that it was _really_ freaking hard.

“I think I got more than a few bruises,” Derek says.

“Ah, bite me.”

“Stiles.”

“No, really. Up yours, buddy.”

“Stiles. _Stiles_!”

He sees in Derek’s eyes that something’s wrong, and he acts on instinct. He throws himself into the Jeep, climbing up onto Derek’s lap, and he wrenches the passenger door shut behind him, slamming a hand on the lock.

And it’s just as the kanima runs into the side of the car, rocking it on its axle. Stiles grabs Derek’s shoulders, needing something to hold onto, and he’s not proud of the cracked yelp that leaves him. But come on, he was almost kanima chow ― it’s not his fault that he’s _terrified_.

Jackson looks at them both through the window, snapping his little lizard teeth and looking like he’s about to devour their very souls and send them to the pits of hell, and then he turns and slinks away towards the trees again.

Stiles lets out an uneasy laugh, nodding quickly. “Ah okay, _wow_. That was a close one. He’s not so smart, is he? I mean, we were out there in the open all that time and he didn’t attack us?”

“Maybe it likes a challenge,” Derek says.

Stiles watches out the window for a long time, but he sees no movement and no glowing eyes. He turns to look back at Derek and realizes just the position that they’re in.

Derek, paralyzed from the neck down and strapped in by a seatbelt, and Stiles, straddling him like he’s ready for a ride, hands on Derek’s shoulders for balance. He jerks his hands away like touching Derek burns him, but somehow he can’t find it in him to get off of Derek ― it’s like his legs have turned to lead and he doesn’t know how to move.

He’s suddenly all too aware of how warm Derek feels between his legs, how good he smells, and how even in the shadowed car, he looks like his face was sculpted by angels. Stiles is only human ― of course he’s going to notice things like that.

“We should probably go,” Derek says, and there’s a very present warning to his tone.  “We have what we came for.”

Stiles nods quickly. “Oh sure, yeah, yeah.” But as he feels around in his hoodie pockets, he realizes something. “Oh _God_.”

“What?”

“The keys.”

“Where are they?”

Stiles blinks slowly, giving Derek a skeptical look. “ _Obviously_ , I don’t know.”

He looks all around him, even checking the ignition, and then he looks back out the window. About ten feet away from the Jeep, he sees something glittering on top of a clump of leaves and he winces. They’re pretty far away, considering. He has no doubt that they fell out of his pocket while he attempted to haul Derek to safety.

He reaches for the door lock and glances towards the woods. Just in time to see the kanima melt out of the shadows and appear, hissing in their general direction. Jackson is fast. Stiles wouldn’t have any time to get out and get the keys, even if he ran like the wind.

“We ah, we might be here for a little while,” Stiles says.

Derek closes his eyes, looking like he wants to punch something, and Stiles is almost glad he’s paralyzed so that he can’t.

“Sorry,” Stiles says sarcastically. “Must’ve dropped them when I was… you know, _saving your life_.”

To his credit, Derek doesn’t roll his eyes. He does crack them open, and he makes a very strange face at Stiles. “You should probably move over there,” he says, and he nods his head very slightly towards the driver’s seat.

And stupidly, Stiles asks, “Why?”

Derek then looks down. Stiles unthinkingly follows the motion, looking down at his and Derek’s legs.

And right about now is when he realizes that he’s kind of hard and Derek can kind of feel it, and oh my freaking _God_ , that is so _not cool_.

“Oh!” Stiles exclaims, heat blooming in his cheeks. “No, no! _No_. That’s my cell phone. Don’t worry.”

He hurriedly climbs off of Derek, throwing himself into the driver’s seat as Derek’s eyes close again. Stiles’ face burns as he hunches over the steering wheel a little, and he actually contemplates what it might feel like letting Jackson’s claws rip into and kill him ― anything would be better than the mortification running through his veins now.

So Derek Hale is attractive. And Stiles is sixteen ― of course he’s going to react when his dick is rubbing up against something. It doesn’t mean anything. He’s not obsessed with Derek. Besides, it was probably just because his adrenaline was pumping…. Yeah, that sounds about right.

“I wasn’t worried,” Derek says quietly. After a pregnant pause, he adds, “And your cell’s on the dash.”

Stiles squeezes his eyes shut, cursing himself inwardly.

Minutes pass. Finally, Stiles’ embarrassment is over, and he relaxes back in the seat with a heavy sigh. He pulls out the herb he and Derek found, and he clicks on the light above them so that he can get a good look at it. It’s kind of ugly ― and he realizes that it’s actually very similar looking to Jackson’s kanima form, color and texture-wise.

“So you think Dr. Deaton’ll know what to do with this?” he asks.

Derek doesn’t answer right away. He looks like he’d probably shrug if he had any movement in his shoulders. “I hope so.”

Stiles leans over and opens the glove box, shoving the Ziploc bag inside and shutting it carefully. Then he sits up again and leans over Derek a little, looking back at the woods. He swears he can see a shadow moving from tree-to-tree, but if he can catch Jackson off guard, maybe he can jump out and grab the keys before the kanima knows what’s going on.

“Don’t,” Derek says, and Stiles looks at him.

“Why?”

“Just wait.”

“For what? For the toxin to wear off? Didn’t that take like seventy-two hours last time?”

Derek rolls his eyes. “There _is_ such a thing as too much sarcasm, Stiles.”

“Nonsense. I’ll hear none of that.”

“Just sit back and wait. Either the toxin’ll wear off and _I’ll_ get the keys, or Jackson’ll get bored and go home,” Derek says.

And Stiles isn’t in the mood to argue. He relaxes back in the driver’s seat, heaves a deep sigh, and closes his eyes.

 

*

 

Five minutes pass.

Bored, Stiles sits up. He smacks Derek’s thigh, and Derek looks at him like he’s just grown an extra head.

“Did that hurt?” Stiles asks.

“I’m paralyzed, not without sensation,” Derek says.

“I was just curious.”

 

*

 

Five more minutes pass.

“Derek. What if this herb doesn’t work?”

“It will.”

“But what if ―?”

“ _It will_.”

 

*

 

Ten more minutes pass.

“Hey, so listen to this,” Stiles says.

Derek groans, but Stiles rushes on.

“If you have an identical twin, your DNA will match up exactly to them, did you know that?” Stiles asks. “Like, your twin could commit a murder, and if their DNA’s at the scene, it could also match up with _your_ DNA, so _you_ could be arrested and charged, even though you’d be _totally_ innocent.”

“Shut up, Stiles.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Look, I’m just trying to pass the time with some friendly conversation ― interesting too, if I can say so myself. You don’t have to be a jackass about it.”

There’s a long, long pause. Then Derek asks, “Did you learn that from your father?”

“Nah, some show on TV. About a real life crime case where a guy was convicted because of what his twin did. It was cool. Well, you know, cool but crazy. Kinda like my life ever since Scott became a werewolf.”

 

*

 

After ten more minutes, Stiles passes out. He sleeps for almost two hours, but is awakened when he hears the sound of one of the Jeep doors shutting.

He snaps awake, wiping the drool from his mouth, and Derek is there, holding his keys out to him. Stiles hesitantly takes them, trying to figure out what’s going on. Derek is still sluggish, looking a little slouchy, and he collapses against the seat like he’s just run a mile or something. Stiles figures that the toxin wore off enough for Derek to hop out and grab the keys without incident.

“How long was I out?” Stiles asks, thrusting the key into the ignition.

“Don’t know,” Derek says. _Don’t care_ , is what is tone says.

Stiles rubs his eyes with one hand as he starts the car. He checks the clock and winces, knowing his father is going to have a damned cow when Stiles tries to sneak in. That’s definitely not a conversation he’s looking forward to, that’s for sure.

“Thanks.”

Stiles almost steps on the brake out of confusion. He glances sideways at Derek, furrowing his eyebrows. “Huh?”

Derek stares straight ahead, and it looks like he’s pointedly trying to keep his gaze off of Stiles. He swallows visibly ― a motion that shouldn’t distract Stiles as much as it really does ― and then he says again, “Thanks…. For not leaving me.”

And Stiles doesn’t know what to say. A noise like ‘ _Ennnhhhh_ ’ leaves him and he nods quickly. The rest of the ride is quiet and surprisingly, it’s a comfortable kind of silence.

He takes Derek to his super secret werewolf lair, and as Derek pushes open the Jeep door and starts to climb out, he turns to glance back at Stiles. He holds something out, and Stiles hesitantly takes it. It’s a wad of bills ― forty dollars to be exact.

“For the gas,” Derek says. And then he shuts the door and disappears.

 

* * * * * *

 

Derek isn’t so sure how he feels about Deaton.

He supposes the guy is smart enough, and he’s never held it against Derek that Derek essentially kidnapped and tortured him. So that’s something. He seems to genuinely want to help and Derek supposes that that’s something too.

It’s Friday evening and Deaton’s closed the office early. Along with Derek, Scott and Stiles are there, and the three of them stand in front of Deaton as he examines the herb that Stiles brought in from the Jeep. He pulls it carefully from the bag and holds it under the light, turning it this way and that like it’s a rare jewel he’s appraising.

“I have to admit, I’m surprised you could locate any around here. As far as I knew, this wasn’t something that could be found in Beacon Hills,” Deaton says, his voice as calm and pleasant as always.

“Had to do some digging,” Derek says. “It’s not easy to find.”

“Well, it was kind of easy,” Stiles says, and Derek looks around Scott at him. Stiles’ expression can best be described as ‘challenging,’ and Derek narrows his eyes at him.  

“If your sense of smell’s as good as mine, then _yes_ , it is easy,” he says. “But a normal human would be wandering for days and would probably never find it on their own.”

Stiles makes a face, holding his hands up defensively. He then mimes zipping his lips shut, and Derek rolls his eyes. Deaton holds the herb out and Scott reaches up to touch one of the spiny, oblong leaves.

“I don’t like it,” Scott says, crinkling his nose and reclaiming his hand. “I don’t like the way it smells.”

Deaton gives him a small smile. “Well it’s a good thing it’s not for you then, isn’t it?”

“So what do we do with it?” Stiles demands. Derek doesn’t point out the zipped lips thing ― it won’t do any good, he knows. He vaguely wonders if Stiles talks even in his sleep; it seems like this kid never shuts up. “Drop it into some soup and get him to eat it? Burn it and make him inhale the fumes or something?”

“No,” Deaton says thoughtfully, setting the herb down. He places his hands on the metal table and looks up at the three of them, shifting his gaze between them evenly. “That solution would only be temporary, you see. We need something more stable, something that’ll last. Our best bet would be to crush the roots into a powder and put it into something that Jackson can always have on him ― say, a necklace. Or a ring, even.”

“ _Great_ ,” Stiles says. “So not only did I have to hike through the woods last night with King Grump over there to find this thing ― which later got me a good lecture from my dad, mind  you ― but now we have to buy Jackson _jewelry_?”

“It doesn’t have to be expensive, just something that can be opened and sealed shut,” Deaton says.

“Yeah, but we’re talking about Jackson here,” Stiles says. “Guy’s not going to wear just any old piece of jewelry ― he’s got an image to maintain, Doc.”

Derek can actually see where Stiles is coming from. Jackson Whittemore has the best of everything ― his car, his clothes, the product he puts in his hair. He’s not going to accept a necklace that looks cheap. In fact, he’d probably demand a receipt to know just how much they’d been willing to spend on him.

But Derek doesn’t say anything. He’s not going to agree with Stiles after Stiles had called him ‘King Grump.’ He doesn’t care if it’s trivial and petty of him.

“I have something,” Scott says, and the others look at him. He shrugs, scratching at the back of his head and looking very uncomfortable all of a sudden. “A ring. It was my father’s, but… well, I, uh, I don’t need it anymore.”

Derek doesn’t miss Stiles’ reaction. He frowns sympathetically, and one of his hands goes to Scott’s wrist, which he squeezes very lightly and very briefly. It’s over in a moment, and Stiles’ attention goes back to Deaton and the plant.

Derek stares at Stiles. He can’t help it.

Obviously, he knows that Stiles and Scott are close ― closer than close. Their bond is not unlike the bond that eventually forms between an Alpha and a bitten beta, the sort of bond Peter had wanted when he’d turned Scott. Stiles loves Scott, utterly and irrevocably, and Stiles will always go out of his way to help Scott ― whether it was helping him with his first few transformations, or helping him cope with not having a father in his life.

And Derek realizes very abruptly, and very annoyingly… that he’s jealous.

“If you really don’t mind parting with it,” Deaton is saying, “You could bring the ring to me and I could get it set up for Jackson. If you think he’ll wear it.”

“He’ll have to,” Derek says, and his voice comes out rougher and harsher than he’d intended. Stiles glances at him, but Derek keeps his hard gaze on Deaton. He’s not envious of Scott, he tells himself. He doesn’t need his own Stiles in his life. He has Isaac and Erica and Boyd. He’s _fine_. He clears his throat. “If he doesn’t, it’s on him. We did what we could.”

There’s a small moment of silence.

“I don’t mind,” Scott says swiftly. “I’ll bring it in first thing in the morning.”

“Hey, Doc. Is there something like this herb for werewolves?” Stiles asks out of the blue.

Deaton looks a little surprised by the question. “I didn’t know Scott was having trouble controlling himself,” he says.

“Me neither,” Scott says, a half-laugh of confusion leaving him.

“No, I meant… I meant for the others. Isaac and them,” Stiles says.

And for the second time, Derek can only stare at Stiles, his brow furrowing. Scott turns and tosses a glance at Derek, his expression just as perplexed as Derek’s himself, and then they all look back at Stiles, who suddenly looks a little flushed. He shrugs a little.

“It was their first full moon,” he says. “It was hard for Scott but Allison helped him ― unless Derek’s pack all have Allisons of their own, they could probably do with some help too. They could have seriously hurt themselves… or someone else.”

Derek blinks. He suddenly feels like it’s too hot, and he steps away from the table. He needs to get out of this cramped room, he needs to go for a run or something because he feels… off. He feels strange. What the hell is wrong with him? So Stiles wants to help the pack ― that’s not new. Why does Derek feel so surprised about it? He feels something like gratitude welling up in him, and he doesn’t even know why.

He’s suddenly very aware of the sound of Stiles’ heartbeat, the hot blood rushing through his veins. He can practically hear Stiles’ brain working as he follows along with Deaton’s words.

“There is something, but… it’s not as simple as an herb,” Deaton is saying.

Nobody seems to have noticed the way Derek’s suddenly acting. He grabs the edge of the metal table and squeezes a little― not quite hard enough to dent the table, since he doesn’t want to have to pay Deaton for damages. He takes a few deep, silent breaths through his nose, trying to steady himself. He forces himself to relax.

Why does Stiles even care? What’s in it for him if he helps the betas?

Whatever it was that’d happened to Derek, it’s gone almost as fast as it’d arrived. He lets go of the table, crams his hands back into the pockets of his leather jacket, and he focuses on Deaton again. He’s momentarily glad that Scott isn’t as keen or observant as he should be, even with his enhanced senses ― Scott noticing something wrong with Derek is exactly the opposite of what Derek needs.

“I’ve only seen it once in my life,” the veterinarian goes on, “And it wasn’t easy to get a hold of at all ― this herb was a walk in the park compared to the stone.”

“Stone?” Scott echoes.

“Nobody knows the real name of it,” Deaton explains. “Most people just refer to it as a moonstone.”

“Guess you’re not talking about the state gem of Florida,” Stiles says.

“You’d guess right. This stone is very old, very powerful. It’s made into jewelry, much like my suggestion for Jackson’s problem ― usually carved into rings or pendants. The wearer is able to harness power from the full moon and turn that power into self-discipline.”

“Well… where would we get some?” Stiles asks, and he darts a look at Derek, who hurriedly looks down, not wanting to be caught staring at him.

Deaton frowns. “That’s the problem; I’m not sure anymore. I once had a small moonstone chip that I’d had imported from Germany, but it’s exceedingly rare. And the people that know anything about it are very secretive and reserved about it. I heard once about an older Scandinavian couple who deal in moonstones, but I think that’s just a rumor.”

“What happened to yours?” Derek asks.

“Stolen,” is all Deaton says.

Scott looks at Stiles, frowning a little sympathetically. “It was worth a shot,” he says.

Stiles nods, and his eyes flicker towards Derek again. Their gazes lock and Derek finds it hard to look away, and something bizarre passes between them ― an understanding, maybe? Stiles looks sympathetic, strangely compassionate considering all the threats Derek makes towards him on a daily basis, and again, Derek feels too hot.

He pushes himself away from the table, nodding. “Well, I’m going. Let me know when Jackson’s got it on. Sick of spending my time worrying about the kanima.”

He walks towards the door, feeling three sets of eyes burning into his back. The eyes that feel the strongest are of course those belonging to Stiles, and a part of Derek almost wants to turn around and hit him. Why did Stiles ask about the moonstone? Why’s he even interested in Derek’s betas? It’s none of his concern, and he needs to mind his own damned business.

And stop making Derek feel so damned disorientated all of a sudden.

“Derek?” Deaton says, and Derek hesitates at the door. “Thank you. If you hadn’t known about the plant, we wouldn’t be able to help Jackson.”

Derek mulls over an answer, choosing his words carefully. Finally, in a gruff voice, he says, “Don’t thank me yet. We don’t even know if it’ll work.”

 

*

 

Derek doesn’t have the Camaro tonight. Before he’d come to Deaton’s office, he’d left his keys with Boyd ― the only one of his betas he trusts enough with the car ― because he’d thought they’d maybe like to get out and do something after being cooped up for almost all of Thursday.

He doesn’t mind. Walking is easy. Running’s even easier. Once he gets to the line of trees behind the animal clinic, he’ll set off at a dash and pump out the frustration that he suddenly feels too full of. But just as he’s reaching the safety and darkness of the trees, he hears a car squeal to a stop behind him. Even as he hears a door pop open, he gets a hunch as to who it is, and he fights the urge to roll his eyes.

“Hey, buddy; you want a ride?”

Derek turns around. Stiles is leaning across the passenger seat of his Jeep, gazing out at Derek with his eyebrows raised. He’s acting like he and Derek ride together all the time ― so maybe they’ve ridden together a few times, but Derek doesn’t make a habit out of it ― and he looks at Derek like he’ll be surprised if Derek says no.

“I’m faster on my feet,” Derek says.

“Aw come on, don’t be such a grouch.”

“Go home, Stiles.”

Stiles makes a face at Derek, blinking slowly and skeptically at him. He waits for a long moment, and Derek straightens his shoulders, staring blankly back at him. If Stiles is trying to outwait Derek, Derek’s got news for him. Not. Happening.

Finally, Stiles throws his hands up. “Alright, fine, whatever. Don’t come. I was just trying to be nice.”

He doesn’t shut the passenger door, and he taps on the gas pedal, making the Jeep roll forward a few inches. Then he hits the brakes and looks back at Derek. Again, he goes forward a little and hits the brakes. And then a third time. And each time, he looks back at Derek, eyebrows raised.

“Come _on_ , Derek. I don’t get to do much else for the pack, let me at least give you a ride.”

Unbelievably, Derek lets it get to him. With a sigh through his nose, he slowly nears the Jeep, and Stiles looks like he’s just been told that Santa’s coming to dinner. As Derek climbs up into the passenger seat and shuts the door, Stiles pulls slowly out of the parking lot and onto the main road.

They ride in silence for a little while. Derek sits with his hands in his jacket pockets, shoulders hunched, and he watches through the window at the scenery that rolls past. Just the night before he was in the very same spot, paralyzed and bored out of his mind, and feeling way too close to Stiles than he was comfortable.

And that’s not even touching on the small window of time when Stiles had been in his lap.

But that’s something Derek refuses to think about. Mostly because Stiles is sixteen, and a little because Stiles is… well, _Stiles_. And more often than not, he’s just annoying. And talkative. Way too damned talkative.

The silence finally seems to get to Stiles. He glances sideways at Derek before he speaks. “So Dr. Deaton feels pretty good about that plant…. He said the name but I don’t remember it.”

Derek does. It was in one of Peter’s old books, back when…. Back before the fire. So he tells Stiles the name.

“Yeah, that. I’ll never remember that word, so from now on, it’s just, _The Plant_.”

“How clever.”

“I do my best…. So what do you think?”

“About what?”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “The Plant. Do you think it’ll help Jackson? Really.”

Derek pauses thoughtfully. He can honestly say that he _does_. So he nods. “If it doesn’t, I’ll be surprised,” he says.

“And what about those moonstones Dr. Deaton was talking about?”

Derek frowns now. “They don’t exist.”

“But he said he had one.”

“He _said_  he had _a piece_ of one, if he’s telling the truth” Derek almost snaps. “If they ever even existed, they don’t anymore, okay?”

“But how do you ―” Stiles starts to ask.

“My family would have known something about them. They would have told me.”

It’s almost audible the way Stiles’ mouth slams shut. He glances at Derek after a minute, but they don’t speak again for the rest of the ride. Derek feels bad for snapping, but he can’t help himself. Something about Stiles is just making him uncomfortable tonight ― he should have never gotten into the Jeep in the first place.

The heat radiating from Stiles feels stronger than it normally is, and he smells fresh, like Irish Spring soap and clean linen. His heartbeat is steady and calm, an even tempo that Derek can concentrate on, to help him relax. Why does it suddenly feel so strange to be with Stiles like this? Is it because of what’d happened when Stiles had been in Derek’s lap the night before?

Derek tries to push the thought away from his mind again. He presses himself a little closer to the door, rolling the window down just an inch for some fresh air that doesn’t smell like Stiles.

When Stiles pulls to a stop and Derek reaches for the door handle, Stiles thrusts something into Derek’s face. Derek’s brow furrows, and he realizes that it’s the money he’d given Stiles the night before. He looks at Stiles, puzzled.

“I was only joking… about the gas thing,” Stiles says. “I didn’t really want you to give me any money. I was just blabbing out of my ass, like always.”

“Just stop talking and take it,” Derek says, and he pushes Stiles’ hand away.

“No, I mean it. I can afford my own gas, Derek.”

“And so can I,” Derek says on a growl.

Stiles drops his hand to his lap, that skeptical look returning to his face as he blinks slowly at Derek. “Look, pal, I’m not trying to insult your wolf pride or anything; I know you can afford gas. I just don’t need you to buy it for me.”

Derek holds his hand out, and Stiles hurries to set the wad of bills in it. But then Derek leans over, and though Stiles flinches and cringes away from him, Derek finds the chest pocket of the red plaid shirt Stiles is wearing. He tucks the money away safely, pats Stiles on the chest, and climbs out of the car.

Stiles stammers something about the money, but Derek shuts the door and walks away from the Jeep. He almost expects Stiles to roll down the window and throw the money at him ― just seems like something Stiles would do ― but Stiles switches gears and drives away.

Derek feels like he can breathe again.

 

* * * * * *

 

Stiles finally finishes his report on Saturday night. He’d have been done a lot sooner if the supernatural creatures of Beacon Hills had left him alone for the past two days, but at least he’s done now.  He types ‘The End,’ just so Coach Finstock knows not to expect any more of this literary gold, and he saves the document before he hits print.

Then he opens up the internet browser he’d had minimized. The website he was on is in a completely different language ― Danish ― and he’s using Google Translate in another window to try and get the general gist of this site. It took him nearly all day to even find the website, and then it’d taken him all night to try and translate it. Not counting the hour and a half he took off to finish his report, of course.

The site is plain. Just a white background with black text, and absolutely no pictures whatsoever. But from what he can gather, for a very large fee, he can order moonstones. And not the state gem of Florida, but the actual mystical moonstones that Dr. Deaton was talking about. He certainly can’t afford it on his own, but maybe if the whole pack were to pitch in….

He opens a new window to check his email ― nothing. And then he checks the only social network he’s on ― nothing. He sits back in his desk chair, stretching his arms above his head, and he looks at the printed report, contemplating reading it just because he’s bored out of his skull.

Then his gaze lands on something else on the desk ― the forty dollars that Derek had given him for gas. He hasn’t put it into his wallet yet, and he doesn’t plan on it, because he doesn’t plan on keeping it. Maybe he’ll donate it to charity, one of the animal things that Dr. Deaton’s office always has flyers for.

He thinks about yesterday, when he’d tried to give the money back. He’d been so relieved when Derek had held his hand out, but then Derek had simply given it back to him, cramming it into Stiles’ shirt pocket. And Stiles had been so flabbergasted for a moment that he’d only held his breath and gaped stupidly. Derek had patted him on the chest, his hand firm and warm and making Stiles feel like he might just explode, and then, he’d just climbed out of the Jeep all casual as you please, and disappeared into his lair.

Stiles will never admit to _anyone_ what he’d thought Derek was actually going to do. What he’d _wanted_ Derek to do.

He then thinks about Thursday night. Not about Jackson attacking them, or about the stupid plant they had to find, but about what it’d felt like to be in Derek’s lap. Derek had been so warm between his legs, so firm and _there_ beneath his hands and it’d made Stiles realize rather naively how lonely he felt sometimes. Most of the time.

Derek smells like leather and something else, something natural ― like the bark on a tree. And when the glow of the moon hits him a certain way, it makes his skin glow, casts shadows over his sharp cheekbones and dimpled chin. And Jesus Christ, he’s beautiful. There’s nothing else that can be said about Derek Hale, except that he’s as beautiful as he is tragic.

So maybe Stiles _is_ a little obsessed. But who isn’t?

With a sigh, he pushes himself to his feet and after grabbing a change of clothes, he makes his way into the bathroom ― he suddenly feels like he needs a shower. It’s a quick shower and he makes it a point to keep his hands above his waist at all times ― except for when he’s actually washing himself below the waist, but that’s all he does! His fingers start to wander down to a place he knows all too well, but he forces himself not to do it. He refuses to touch himself and think about Derek.

No matter how tempting the idea is.  

He dresses in cotton PJ pants and an old T-shirt when he gets out of the shower ― he never dries off properly, so the shirt sticks to him uncomfortably ― and he almost laughs at himself. It’s not even ten on a Saturday night and he’s almost ready for bed. This is his life. When he’s not out running around with werewolves, he has nothing else to do and no one to hang out with. It’s almost pathetic.

As if he’s willed it, he walks into his room and finds someone waiting for him.

He yells and darts back out of the room, before he slowly peers around the door frame. It’s Derek himself, and Stiles immediately feels ashamed of himself for having thought of Derek in such a manner in the shower. Derek’s sitting at the end of Stiles’ bed, a book in his hands, and he glances up as Stiles enters the room again.

“What if I’d been naked, Derek?” Stiles demands, crossing his arms over his chest and puffing up. “You werewolves need to learn about this thing called _privacy_ ― freaking boundaries, buddy.”

Derek closes the book with a snap and tosses it behind him on the bed before he stands. Stiles shrinks back a little, but Derek doesn’t seem to be in too grumpy of a mood, so hopefully he won’t be throwing Stiles into any walls any time soon. He shoves his hands into his jacket pockets, and he shrugs when he looks at Stiles.

“I would have closed my eyes,” he says simply.

“Yeah, but not before getting a big eyeful of all this,” Stiles says, and he gestures from his head to his feet. He’d make a joke about how maybe that’s what Derek keeps hoping for every time he pops by unexpectedly like this, but somehow he doesn’t think Derek would think it was funny.

Derek arches only one of his eyebrows ― it’s a look that he’s mastered, Stiles can’t do it himself without holding his second eyebrow down with a finger ― and his gaze follows the movement of Stiles’ hand, taking in Stiles from head to toe. Suddenly Stiles wishes he hadn’t done that. The heat that creeps up his neck makes him feel stupid and silly and ready to hide under the bed until Derek leaves.

Stiles cringes at his embarrassment, and he makes his way to his desk. He sits in the chair, spinning in it once before turning to face Derek. “So what’s up?” he asks.

“I just came from Jackson’s…. Thought you’d want to know what’s up.”

“Scott could have come,” Stiles says, shrugging. Derek raises his eyebrows and Stiles nods, realizing easily what was going on. “Or Scott could have gone to Allison’s…. And left you with the task of filling me in.” He doesn’t mean to sound as dejected as he does, but hey, what can you do?

“Scott appreciates you,” Derek says suddenly. It’s such a strange thing for him to say that Stiles can only blink stupidly at him. Derek shifts a little, and if he looks uncomfortable, it’s only for a brief, brief moment.

“Yeah… yeah, I know,” Stiles says quickly. “Of course he does ― he’s always been like that, you know…” he trails off, looking for the right word.

“Stupid?” Derek suggests.

“I was going to say dense or careless, but stupid works too,” Stiles says, nodding. He shrugs again. “But hey, he’s my best friend; I love him.”

 _Now_ Derek looks uncomfortable. “Anyway,” he says, very obviously segueing into a new topic, “Jackson’s wearing the ring. I have Isaac and Erica outside his house. If he gets out later, they’ll follow him.”

“Oh, a bona fide stakeout. I’m surprised you’re okay missing out on that, since stalking seems to be your favorite pastime.”

Derek narrows his eyes and Stiles fights the urge to laugh at his grumpy and surly sour wolf. The urge to laugh quickly fades away as he realizes what he’d just thought ― not the grumpy and surly part, and not even the sour wolf part because those are all true ― but the _his_ part. He shakes his head. Once he starts thinking of Derek as _his_ , he’s very far gone.

“So ah, how did Jackson react to the ring? I bet he hated it,” Stiles says, hurrying to move on with the conversation.

“I don’t think hate is a strong enough word,” Derek answers. “I might have had to remind him a little… forcefully about what was at stake here.”

“So you threw him into the wall? Bared your teeth a little?” Stiles asks, nodding.

“Don’t knock it until you try it ― it gets the job done,” Derek says.

A little surprised laugh leaves Stiles. He wonders, not for the first time, what Derek Hale was like before the fire. Derek obviously has a sense of humor and Stiles wishes he saw more of it. Was Derek always this pessimistic and sarcastic? Did he smile more before the fire? What does his laugh sound like?

He wishes he’d paid more attention to the Hales then.

“So…,” Stiles says, clapping his hands together awkwardly. “You got your best pups on the scene, staking out ― maybe _making_ out as well, I’m not going to think about that. Thanks for, ah… letting me know.”

“Yeah,” Derek says. And for the first time since Stiles and Scott had run into Derek in the woods that day after Scott was bit, Derek looks… awkward, unsure. It’s a very strange look on him, and it makes Stiles feel physically uncomfortable.

He glances back at his computer, needing to get his gaze off of Derek, and he sees the webpage he has up. Immediately, excitement flares in him, and he spins back to Derek. “Oh hey, guess what.”

Derek doesn’t ask what. He just raises his eyebrows.

“Those moonstones Dr. Deaton was talking about? I might have found people that are actually selling them,” Stiles says.

“What?”

“Yeah. It’s like the doc said. I mean, I _guess_ they’re selling the moonstones. I’ve been trying to translate this thing all night,” Stiles says, and he turns back to his computer. He points at the screen as Derek comes up behind him, and Derek leans over his shoulder to see. Stiles opens the document where he’s copied down what Google told him. “Here are the translations.”

He glances up at Derek’s face, watches the Alpha’s hazel green eyes move over each line of text. Then his gaze wanders over the sharp angles of Derek’s cheekbones and jaw, the straight line of his nose. It’s not fair for someone to look like Derek. And it’s not fair for someone who _does_ look like Derek to have lost everything like he did.

“You can’t trust this,” Derek says suddenly, and he turns to walk away.

Stiles feels a little let down. He’d hoped for a better reaction. He turns around to face Derek again. “Why not? It’s worth a shot, isn’t it?”

“It’s a scam, Stiles.”

“You don’t know that.”

“And you do? It’s just rocks ― they could send you anything and claim it’s a moonstone.”

“Dr. Deaton would know ―”

“ _Why_ do you even care?” Derek’s tone rises a little, a dangerous edge coming to it. When he looks at Stiles, his eyes are sharp and fiery, and Stiles almost wilts at the glare. “I can take care of my own damned pack, alright? They’re doing just fine and they don’t need your help.”

“I’m not saying you can’t take care of them ―”

“So stop saying anything at all. You _don’t_ have to worry about them,” Derek snaps, an air of finality to his words.

Stiles hesitates. He should have remembered that the Derek Hale is a proud creature, rarely ready to accept help from anyone at any time or any place. Unless it’s a life or death situation of course, like when he’s dying from a magic bullet or about to drown because he’s paralyzed. But any other time, no dice.

Derek begins to pace back and forth like a caged tiger. Stiles is surprised he’s still there ― he’d half-expected Derek to take a running dive out the window and disappear into the night. When he doesn’t say anything for a long, long moment, Stiles decides it’s safe for him to speak.

“I’m not worried about them. I’m worried about you. There’s three of them and only one of you, and I just… I just wanted to help, man. I want to do something for the pack.”

Derek stops pacing. He looks at Stiles, and he’s strangely vulnerable all of a sudden, and Stiles feels something constrict in his chest. He feels like he’s seeing the real Derek for the first time, and he doesn’t know how to act. It’s almost like Derek’s been torn open in front of him, and Stiles can see all the raw insecurity and anxiety he keeps bottled up.

It’s really freaking unsettling.

“I should go,” Derek says.

“The moonstones ―”

“Stop wasting your time on them. If you want to help the pack, we’ll find something else for you to do. You couldn’t afford them anyway, even if they were real.”

“No, but maybe my dad would help out. An early Christmas present sort of thing. Convince him that I’m into geology or something.”

“Forget the stones, Stiles.”

Derek turns and makes his way towards the window, so graceful he’s practically gliding, and something odd begins to bubble up in Stiles. Seeing Derek so vulnerable strikes a nerve in him, and there’s something he’s been dying to get off his chest since Thursday night, and he doesn’t think he can contain it anymore. It’s all he can think about and maybe if he says something about it, he’ll forget about it.

 _No_ , he tells himself, _No, no, no_.

But it comes out anyway.

“Derek?” When the Alpha turns back to him, eyebrows raised, Stiles blurts out. “It _was_ a boner.”

A bark-like sound leaves Derek, a surprised half-laugh, and he looks more confused than Stiles has ever seen him before. “ _What_?”

“On Thursday, that _was_ my dick that you felt. Not my phone. Because you were right, my phone was on the dashboard, and that was my… my junk. I was… kinda hard, and you… kinda felt it a little tiny bit,” Stiles babbles.

“Yeah, I know. I saw it.”

“My dick?”

“Your _phone_.”

“Oh….”

Derek starts to climb out the window but turns back to Stiles, blinking a few times. He still looks baffled, like he can’t quite believe what just happened, and Stiles wants to find the tallest building in Beacon Hills and pitch himself off of it. Derek looks at Stiles, and their gazes lock, and for a moment, they just sort of blink at each other. Derek opens his mouth to respond, but then he shakes his head.

He’s gone in moments.

Stiles lets out all of his breath in a great big sigh, and he hangs his head a little. “Well…” he says to his knees, “That went well, Stiles.”

He turns back to his computer, bookmarks the Danish page, and promptly Googles ‘How to get over the worst humiliation of your life.’

 

* * * * * *

 

Derek’s sitting cross-legged on the floor of the subway car, going through printed copies of Gerard Argent’s bestiary, as translated by Lydia Martin. He’s not going to stop until he has a much better understanding of what all is out there ― he refuses to be caught off guard the next time something happens.

Of course, it would be easier to focus if he could get a certain sixteen year old boy out of his mind.

It’s late on Sunday morning and Derek can’t stop thinking about what’d happened at Stiles’ house. Besides Stiles being obsessed with those damned moonstones Deaton had put into his head, and besides Stiles making Derek feel weak and exposed like a raw nerve, Stiles had brought up Thursday night.

A night Derek had been pointedly avoiding thinking about.

Derek had known that the hardness he’d felt had been Stiles’ half-erection ― he isn’t stupid. But he also knows that sometimes it’s something that’s hard to control, especially as a teenager. Stiles had obviously been embarrassed, and Derek was willing to let it slide, to forget it’d ever even happened.

So why had Stiles felt the urge to bring it up? And why is Derek obsessing over it so much?

He sets a page aside, squeezing his eyes shut and rubbing a hand down his face. He’d read the same paragraph at least five times, but he couldn’t tell you what it said if you paid him. He thinks he needs to take a run, maybe visit his old house, clear his head.

What he needs is for Stiles to get out of his mind, end of story.

“Oh, the Lizard Boy graces us with his presence.”

Isaac’s voice drifts to him from outside the subway car, and Derek lifts his head, grateful for the distraction. He opens his senses, and sure enough, he can feel a fourth presence with his betas ― a slightly quickened heartbeat, the smell of Jackson’s expensive cologne.

Derek’s on his feet in an instant, and he walks to the door of the subway car. Erica’s in a stolen lawn chair, a textbook in her lap, completely uninterested in Jackson, who’s standing behind her. Isaac and Boyd, who’d both been sitting on the floor playing cards ― Boyd bets real money, but Isaac doesn’t have any to bet ― are now on their feet as well. Despite Isaac’s minor taunting, he’s keeping his distance from Jackson. He’s not entirely stupid.

Jackson looks at Derek, seeming slightly relieved, and Derek gestures him over. Erica and Isaac had returned last night from their stakeout, as Stiles had called it, and had happily reported that Jackson had stayed home all night. And Jackson doesn’t look all that distressed, so Derek assumes the ring worked.

“I take it there was no trouble,” he says.

Jackson glances uneasily at the betas, like he’d rather them not hear the conversation, but he nods at Derek’s words. “I didn’t transform. At ― at all.”

“That’s good…. Did you come here just to tell me that?”

A lesser man than Jackson might have blushed, and a braver man than Jackson may have rolled his eyes. Instead, Jackson just gives Derek a skeptical look that almost rivals Stiles’ own. His hands moves a little, and Derek realizes he’s twisting the ring around and around on his finger ― a nervous habit in the making.

“I came here to thank you, asshole,” Jackson says quietly.

“Feisty,” Erica murmurs with a little grin, looking up from her textbook only briefly.

Jackson’s jaw clenches, but he doesn’t respond to her baiting. He locks his gaze with Derek’s, and says slowly, almost like the words pain him, “So… thank you…. It was nice being in control like that again. Scott says it wouldn’t have been possible without you.”

Derek nods. He’s never been good at people thanking him. “You should thank Stiles,” he says instead.

“Stiles? What does he have to do with this?”

For some reason, a spark of anger flares up in Derek at Jackson’s flippant and dismissive attitude ― the sort of anger that makes it feel like your blood’s heating up in your veins. _Stiles is everything, you unappreciative shit_ , he thinks, and the viciousness of the thought surprises even himself. He swallows against the urge to snap at Jackson. He’s being stupid, he knows. And he doesn’t even know where it came from.

“Stiles found the herb. I just told him what it looked like,” he says through his teeth.

Jackson nods, though he doesn’t look all that eager to thank Stiles. “Yeah, well… I’ll talk to him at school tomorrow, I guess.” He shifts his weight, suddenly looking very awkward, and when he speaks again, his tone is much, much lower, like he honestly believes if he’s quiet enough, the betas won’t hear him. “And you’re sure that this’ll keep up? That it’ll last?”

“As long as you keep that ring on, it should,” Derek says.

Jackson lifts a hand, looking at the bulky ring that had once belonged to Scott’s father. He pauses in thought for a moment, and then with a shrug says, “I guess it could be worse.”

“You _could_ still be wild and uncontrollable and killing people every night,” Boyd points out pleasantly.

Jackson hunches his shoulders, nodding. He mumbles something incoherently, and then looks back up at Derek. “Alright, well, thanks. There, I said it. Now I have to get out of here before I start to smell like you guys. I know it’s cliché, but you all smell like wet dogs, did you know that?”

Isaac’s eyes go gold at Jackson’s insult, and Jackson’s turn reptilian. Immediately Isaac backs off, and Jackson marches away. Erica turns in her chair to watch him go, head cocking just a little as she admires the view, and then she’s once again buried in her textbook. Boyd returns to where he’d been sitting on the ground, and he starts shuffling the cards as Isaac lazily joins him.

“Want in?” Boyd asks Derek.

“I’ll pass.”

Boyd makes a face that says, ‘Suit yourself,’ and Derek disappears back into the dim subway car.

He lowers himself to the floor where the bestiary pages are, and he rests his back against the seat with a little sigh. He doesn’t even bother reaching for the papers because he knows he won’t be able to concentrate. And it’s all Stiles Stilinski’s fault. How did he manage to get under Derek’s skin like this? Why can’t Derek just _stop_ thinking about him? Why is he so obsessed all of a sudden?

He knows the answer to all those questions. He just hates to admit it.

It’s because Stiles makes him feel… whole. Since the fire, Derek’s been so hollow and lost, a feeling massively intensified by Laura’s death. But Stiles almost fills that void inside of him, makes him feel complete again. It’s insane, really ― Derek made a new pack, he turned three fresh-faced betas and sure, he’d call them his friends, but they’re not what he needs. They never were.

It was always Stiles. He was always the key. Derek just didn’t want to see it.

“You alright?”

Derek isn’t surprised or caught off guard. He knows Erica’s been standing there for a few minutes. He glances up at her and she crosses her arms, looking half-concerned and half-uncaring. Like she’s thinking, ‘I like you Derek, but I’m only doing this so I don’t look like a jackass.’

“I’m fine.”

“You’ve just been acting really strange since last night,” she says. She puffs her chest up, her tone rising a little in challenge. “Is this about Isaac and I? I’ve already told you, it’s not serious. It’s just to pass the time.”

“I don’t care about you and Isaac,” he says.

“Well, _good_ …. But really, Derek. What’s the point of having a pack if we can’t help each other out every now and then. Tell me what’s wrong.”

Derek hesitates. He picks through all the different thoughts in his mind, separating them like the copied pages of the bestiary, and he tries to zero in on just one. He can’t tell her how lonely he is ― that’d sound pathetic coming from an Alpha with three betas ― and he can’t tell her that he’s pining for someone ― that’s too insecure for a pack master.

“I’m jealous of someone,” he finally admits. It’s a normal feeling. Everyone in the world’s been jealous of someone else at least once in their lives, and anyone who says otherwise is outright lying. It seems like a safe thing to say, harmless, and he has an idea that Erica may understand where he’s coming from by saying that.

“Who?”

He hesitates. “Scott.”

“Scott _McCall_? Why? Why could you possibly be jealous of _him_?” Erica asks, crinkling her nose like she’s caught a whiff of something bad.

“He has something that I don’t,” Derek says simply.

“Oh, this is going to be good. What does he have that you don’t?”

 _Stiles_ , he thinks. But aloud, he says, “Just forget about it. You wouldn’t understand.”

She shrugs. “You’re probably right, but good talk, Derek.”

Laughing incredulously, she disappears from the car. Derek stretches his legs out in front of him, folds his arms over his chest, and he thinks about Stiles.

He thinks about Stiles’ smell; the fresh, clean scent that smells so much like home that it almost physically hurts. He thinks about Stiles’ inherent goodness and willingness to help, and God damnit, the way he’s obsessed with these damned moonstones like he can actually help the betas during their transformations.  He thinks about the fact that it was Stiles’ own idea to ask Deaton about helping werewolves in the first place.

And he remembers the look Stiles had given Derek after asking, a look that said so clearly that he was thinking of Derek first.

He even thinks about the way Stiles squeezed Scott’s wrist when Scott brought up his father. A quick and brief little gesture to remind Scott of how much he cares about him.

He thinks about Stiles until he feels a hollow pain in his chest. A pain that reminds him that he’s so damned lonely, no matter how many people he turns into werewolves. That he’s so damned empty. And he almost wants to laugh at himself. Who is this kid? How in the hell did he manage to get into Derek and completely unravel him from the inside out?

 _Scott McCall_ , he thinks bitterly. _They boy with_ everything _and he’ll never even know_.

 

* * * * * *

 

Mondays are the worst.

Stiles finishes getting dressed, and he sits down on the wooden bench in the locker room, hunching his shoulders a little. Scott drops beside him, bending forward to tie up his sneakers, and Stiles watches him for a moment, mostly because he feels too worn out to tie his own shoes, and partly because Scott still struggles with tying his shoes sometimes and it’s freaking hilarious to watch.

“Oh, let me guess,” Stiles says, and he places his fingers on his temples and pretends to be channeling a sixth sense. “You’re going _somewhere_ … you’re going to see… Allison Argent.”

“My mom first,” Scott answers, laughing a little. “Want to come?”

“To see your mom or to see Allison?”

“Either one,” Scott says, shrugging.

Stiles thinks for a moment, then shakes his head. “No thanks. I think I’ll pass on that one, guy. Practice was rough today ― Coach must’ve had a bad weekend.”

Scott snorts. “Tell me about it.” He finishes tying his shoes, starts to stand, and then he sits back down. He gives Stiles a really weird look, almost like he’s constipated. It takes Stiles a moment to realize that he’s concerned. “Hey, what about you? You were quiet all day today. Did something happen over the weekend?”

 _Oh, if by ‘did something happen?’ you mean, ‘did you become obsessed with a guy that’s totally out of your league and embarrass yourself silly in front of him?’ then yes, yes I did_ , Stiles thinks. He shrugs a little. “Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Did Derek do something?”

“What? _No_. I mean he came over on Saturday to tell me about… you know. But then he left.” _After I told him he gives me boners_ , Stiles adds mentally. He’ll be surprised if Derek ever lets him live that down.

“We should hang out tomorrow,” Scott says suddenly. “No Allison, no Mom ― well, unless she really needs me, like, you know, an emergency. No Derek, no pack things. Just you and me, like old times.”

Stiles gives a little smile, cocking his head slightly. “Aw, Scott, is this a date?”

Scott punches him playfully, and when he turns to stand, Stiles winces and rubs his arm. He really wishes Scott could control his own strength sometimes, because _owwww_. Scott grabs his bag and slings it over his shoulder like it weighs nothing, and then he turns back to Stiles.

“Call you later?”

“I’ll wait with bated breath,” Stiles says.

Scott gives him one of his sweet and dopey and totally Scott smiles before turning and disappearing, and Stiles directs his attention to getting his shoes on and stuffing his gear in his bag. He doesn’t rush ― he has nowhere to be, no one waiting for him ― and Danny’s the only one on the team who says goodbye to him as the locker room empties. When he’s alone, he even breaks out into song ― the acoustics in the locker room make any NSYNC song sound good.

He stands, shuts his locker, grabs his backpack and turns to go, still singing. “But if you want it, here’s my heart, no strings att ― _ahh_!” he yelps, falling back against the lockers. Jackson Whittemore is standing there, looking every bit as menacing in human form as he does in kanima form. “ _Jackson_? You were in here this whole time? Christ, you almost let me sing the _whole_ second studio album, man. Announce yourself next time.”

Jackson looks a little murderous, his jaw tight and eyes narrowed, and hey, Stiles understands ― he’s not the best singer at Beacon Hills High. “I need to talk to you,” he says stiffly.

“Oh, right, right. You wanted to wait until everyone else was gone so you wouldn’t be seen having a conversation with me ― I totally understand,” Stiles says.

“Just shut up and listen,” Jackson says, and Stiles holds his hands up defensively. “Derek said I should thank you.”

“For?”

Jackson closes his eyes like Stiles is testing his patience, and he holds up his hand, wiggling his fingers. The ring doesn’t actually look all that bad on him ― not that Stiles will ever tell him that, of course. Jackson’s far too arrogant for his own good already. When Jackson lowers his hand, he begins twisting the ring around on his finger like a nervous tic. Stiles can relate. If he wore a ring, he’d probably do it too.

“Derek said you were the one who found the… the plant or whatever,” Jackson says. “So… thanks, I guess.”

“Ah… you’re welcome, I guess…. So it worked, then?”

Jackson nods. “I haven’t changed since I put it on.”

“Well that’s… that’s good,” Stiles says awkwardly. He’s glad, though, he really is. He just doesn’t know how to tell Jackson that without Jackson thinking he’s being too schmaltzy or something.

“Yeah.”

“Sorry you couldn’t pick out your own ring,” Stiles says. “Probably isn’t to your taste.”

Jackson looks at his hand again, nodding. “It’s not so bad,” he says. “Almost looks like a Super Bowl ring, I guess, or an old class ring. Just don’t know what to say when people ask where I got it.”

“Tell ‘em it’s from your parents. Your real ones.”

For a split second, Jackson looks pissed. His gaze snaps up to Stiles, eyes narrowed and stormy, and Stiles flattens himself against the lockers nervously. He’s trapped in an empty room with a guy that can turn into a homicidal lizard ― he has a right to be worried.  But then, Jackson’s expression clears, and he nods a little.

“So yeah, thanks,” he says, and he turns to go.

When Stiles is alone again ― really alone this time ― he heaves a sigh and runs his fingers through his short hair. He’d done his best to avoid thinking about Derek for most of the day, but Jackson had served as a reminder of everything that had happened between he and the Alpha over the weekend. From the accidental boner on Thursday night, to the admission of said accidental boner on Saturday.

Maybe he should just start avoiding Derek for the rest of his natural life.

Of course, it would be easier to avoid Derek, if he didn’t find Derek waiting at the Jeep in the school parking lot when he gets outside. He hesitates when he sees the werewolf standing there, hands in his jacket pockets, leaning back against the passenger side door a little, and for a long moment, they just sort of stare at each other.

Stiles nears the Jeep, pulling his keys out and swinging them around on one of his fingers. Derek straightens, never taking his gaze off of Stiles. He looks contemplative but strained at the same time, like he isn’t enjoying the thoughts running through his own head. It’s a look very similar to Scott’s constipated one of concern.

Must be a werewolf thing ― do Erica, Isaac and Boyd make the same face too?

“Ah… hey Derek,” Stiles says. “If you’re looking for Scott, he’s already gone. Jackson too ― who, by the way, is looking good thanks to that herb of yours.”

“I’m here for you,” Derek says simply. And he leaves it at that.

“Oh. Well… okay. So what’s up? What do you need?”

“Let’s go for a ride.”

“Yeah, sure, whatever. Here you go, Rover.” Stiles leans in to unlock the door, but as he’s pulling the key out, he realizes that Derek is standing very close to him. And not just that, but he’s… is he _smelling_ him? He turns and looks up at Derek. “Are you okay?”

Derek nods but doesn’t say anything, and he reaches for the door handle, pulling the door open and forcing Stiles to take a step back or else get hit with it. Stiles walks around to the other side of the Jeep, eyebrows furrowed together and mind racing. He’s seen Derek act weird before, but this is new.

“Where to?” he asks, throwing his bag in the back of the Jeep and pulling his seatbelt on. “Oh, and buckle up, furball. You know who my father is.”

Derek doesn’t answer right away, and surprisingly, he obeys Stiles, pulling his own seatbelt on. Finally, he says, “Where we were on Thursday night. There’s something I need to do.”

Stiles nods, but he’s secretly disappointed. He’s really not in the mood to hike through the woods again, and he’s certainly not in the mood to dig through anymore bushes. He starts the car, turns the radio on because he’s not in the mood for Derek’s weird silence, and he pulls out of the lot.

The ride is silent. The sky is gray and overcast, and dark clouds are beginning to roll in, threatening rain. But even as he tries to concentrate on the weather and whether or not he can get home before the rain starts, Stiles can’t stop thinking about his admission on Saturday night. He looks sideways at Derek every few minutes, but Derek keeps his attention focused out the window. He looks like a moody teenager riding with a parent who’s just scolded him, and if Stiles were any braver, he might make fun of him for it.

Stiles doesn’t have any trouble finding the spot where they’d parked the Jeep on Thursday night ― it was burned into his memory since he and Derek had been trapped there for a few hours by a bloodthirsty beast and all. He pulls the Jeep over on the side of the road, very nearly in the same place it was when the kanima attacked, and he turns off the ignition. He pulls his seatbelt off and reaches for the door, but stops when he realizes that Derek is just sitting there.

When he doesn’t make a move to get out of the Jeep, Stiles decides not to as well, and he relaxes back against the seat. For a long moment, they both just sit there, the engine ticking and an uncomfortable silence settling thickly over them. By the time Stiles works up the nerve to say something, a light drizzle has started outside the car.

“So, ah, did we need to get more… plants or something?” he asks.

“No.” A simple answer.

“Oh… okay?”

Derek sighs. He pulls off his seatbelt, and Stiles twitches, reaching for the door again to get out, but Derek settles back in the seat. So Stiles does too.

Unconsciously, he grabs the bottom hem of his hoodie and starts twisting it in his fingers, his own nervous tic like Jackson’s with the ring. He stares down at his hands, watching the movement of his fingers like he’s never seen it before, and after a moment, he feels Derek’s eyes on him.

Stiles glances up and their gazes meet. Derek still looks strained, and his eyes search Stiles’ face like he’s trying to read something there. Nervously, Stiles tries to make his expression as blank as he can, but he feels his eye twitch a little, and he knows he’s kind of cringing. He doesn’t like the way Derek’s studying him ― like he’s just that interesting that Derek can’t possibly look away.

“So is there… a reason why you brought me out to the woods in the middle of nowhere, then?” Stiles asks. “In case you, ah, didn’t get the memo last week ― I’m _really_ not the biggest fan of hiking.”

“You do enough for the pack,” Derek says, completely ignoring Stiles’ words.

“ _Huh_?”

Derek blinks, and he finally looks away. He looks out through the windshield ― well, he _glares_ out through the windshield ― and he shrugs a little. It’s like he’s annoyed that he has to explain himself to Stiles. “You’re always going on about how you just want to do something for the pack, or that you don’t do anything for the pack, and that’s not true.”

“Oh….” Stiles trails off. How else is he supposed to respond? _Okay, good to know, let’s go home because this is getting weird_?

“You care about the pack, about me, even though we’ve given you more than enough reason not to,” Derek says. “And I know I can trust you, and that you’ll do what you can to help, and that’s more than enough for me. It’s why I came to you in the first place on Thursday.”

“That’s me ― always here to help,” Stiles says with an awkward laugh, and he immediately wants to punch himself for it.

“And I really, really hope you aren’t still considering those moonstones,” Derek says, and he arches an eyebrow at Stiles that says very clearly that he thinks it’s a stupid idea.

Stiles frowns, and then he nods. “I think you might have been right about it being a scam,” he admits. “I went to get on the website earlier but it’d been shut down…. I guess they were phony after all.”

“It would have been a waste of money anyway. I can handle my pack,” Derek says.

“I know, I know ―”

“But if you still want to help, maybe you could come over on the next full moon. Before the sun sets. Help me get the others chained up so they can’t hurt themselves ― they broke free last time.”

“Sure, of course,” Stiles says so quickly that he almost stumbles over his own words.

Derek chuckles dryly and it makes Stiles feel like he’s said something wrong. Then Derek shakes his head, and on a murmur, like he’s talking to himself more than anything, he says, “You’re so _good_ , Stiles.”

The words aren’t insulting in the least, but somehow Derek says it like he’s cursing Stiles. And Stiles doesn’t know how to respond. Should he apologize? But what’s he got to be sorry for? Being _good_?

“Derek, you’re not… you’re not making any sense. Are you okay?”

Derek looks back at him and it’s like Saturday night all over again. He’s suddenly vulnerable and exposed, raw in an unimaginable way. Stiles has no doubt that he’s the only one who gets to see this side of Derek, and it makes his chest feel tight. A part of him wants to throw open the door and run for the hills because it really freaking scares him.

“Stiles. I need you,” Derek says.

“You need me to what?” Stiles asks stupidly.

Derek sighs again, and he looks away, frustrated. When he speaks, his tone is clipped and gruff, almost a growl. “I don’t know. I need you to help with the pack, I need you to help with me. I need you like Scott needs you…. I just _need you_ , okay?”

“Okay, sure.”

Derek relaxes in his seat again. He looks like he’d been meaning to get that off his chest for some time, and Stiles almost feels the foolish need to congratulate him. He doesn’t know how to act because come on, this is Derek Hale. Up until just moments ago, Stiles thought Derek had the emotional range of a blade of grass. It’s kind of disconcerting the way Derek’s opening up to him now.

The rain picks up a little, and they sit in silence. Stiles replays Derek’s words over and over in his mind, and he finally realizes what’s been bothering him about them. Derek said he needs him like how Scott needs him. Is he… jealous of Stiles and Scott’s relationship?

Stiles sneaks a glance at Derek. The werewolf stares ahead through the windshield, as grumpy as usual, and he doesn’t seem to notice Stiles’ eyes on him. A thought occurs to Stiles, and though he really, _really_ tries to push it out of his mind, he finds that it’s nearly impossible. He needs to do something to let Derek know how he feels.

And if this were a movie, he’s pretty sure this is what the characters would do.

It happens mindlessly. Like someone else is controlling Stiles’ body. He sits up a little, and then he turns and leans very quickly towards Derek. Derek’s either expecting it or curious to see what’s going to happen, since he doesn’t try to stop Stiles at all. So Stiles takes his opening, and he plants a kiss right on Derek’s lips.

It’s a closemouthed kiss, a peck more than anything, that shows Derek just how inexperienced and chaste Stiles really is, and the minute he does it, Stiles feels a familiar heat creeping up his neck and turning his ears red. He pulls back slowly, wonders if he should try again, and he starts to lean in once more, before deciding against it and returning to his seat.

The silence is almost painful.

He can’t bring himself to look at Derek. He feels like a right idiot and he knows immediately that he’s made a mistake ― he doesn’t need to see Derek’s reaction. It’d probably hurt him too much.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he says, and he shoves the key into the ignition.

“Stiles.”

“We should probably get out of here before I do something else to _completely_ mortify myself.”

Before he can turn the key, Derek suddenly moves, swift and quick. He leans over, nudges Stiles’ hand aside and tugs the keys out of the ignition. Stiles gapes at him, and Derek returns to his seat, holding the keys in a closed fist. His expression is even stranger than it’d been before, though it almost looks like he’s… trying to fight back a smirk. Like he’s trying not to laugh at Stiles.

What is going on? Is Stiles losing his mind?

“Give me back my keys,” he says. Well, he tries to _demand_ , but his voice cracks and ruins that impression. When Derek starts to roll the window down, Stiles lets out a noise not unlike an undignified squawk, and he lunges towards Derek. “No! Give me the keys.”

Derek throws them out of the Jeep, and they sail through the air until they land a good ten feet away. Ironically, it’s about the same place where Stiles had dropped them on Thursday night. Derek turns and looks back at Stiles as he rolls the window back up, and Stiles can only stare openmouthed at him.

Is this really happening? This must be what going mad feels like.

“Why did you do that?” Stiles whines.

“You kissed me.”

Stiles snorts and sits back in his seat, folding his arms over his chest stubbornly. “Yeah, so what. Shove it, Fido ― we’re all allowed to make mistakes every now and then. Go get my keys.”

“Come here.”

“ _What_?”

Derek gives a little nod, gesturing for Stiles to come to him. The realization that Derek means for Stiles to _get in his freaking lap_ makes Stiles inhale sharply, his heart skipping a beat or two. His palms instantly become sweaty, and he brushes them on his thighs, trying to dry them on his jeans, and he swallows hard, blinking rapidly a few times to try and clear his head.

“Derek….”

“You opened the door, Stiles. Now you just have to let me in,” Derek says.

Stiles hesitates. His mouth falls open, stays that way for a moment, and then he shakes his head, confused. He doesn’t know what to do or say, and he wishes he had his keys because he would open Derek’s door, push him out and drive off without him. But Derek’s just sitting there, being patient and looking so beautiful and so vulnerable, and it almost physically hurts Stiles to look at him.

He takes a deep breath and steels himself. With a newfound sense of bravery, he moves towards Derek and climbs carefully into his lap, straddling him the way he’d unintentionally done on Thursday night. He lets out the breath he’d been holding, and he places his hands on Derek’s shoulders ― Derek’s firm and unbelievably hard shoulders.

“Now what?” Stiles asks, trying to sound bored and disinterested but failing miserably. Instead, he sounds breathy and flustered, and he knows he’s blushing.

Derek is smirking now, there’s no hiding it anymore. It’s obvious by the amusement in his hazel green eyes that he doesn’t for once believe Stiles’ feigned indifference. “Whatever you want,” he says.

Stiles stares down at him for an impossibly long moment. Then he reminds himself that if Derek didn’t truly want this, they wouldn’t be here in the first place. So Stiles hesitantly leans in, his eyes closing just as their mouths touch.

His lips brush Derek’s again, only this time, there’s nothing hurried or rushed about it. He kisses Derek softly, like he’s testing the waters, and Derek’s lips are firm and slightly dryer than he’d anticipated, but they’re also warm and welcoming, and that feels pretty good.  As Derek’s hands settle on Stiles’ waist, his touch feels electric, sending a current straight through Stiles’ bones and making his pulse thrum loud and heavy in his ears.

And then Derek opens his mouth a little, and Stiles wavers, not knowing exactly what to do. He feels Derek’s tongue flick across his bottom lip, almost like he’s teasing him, and then Derek’s tongue is in his mouth, and it feels awesome. Stiles presses his own tongue against Derek’s, and that’s even more awesome.

Feeling bold, Stiles pushes his tongue into Derek’s mouth and explores it greedily. A laugh stirs in Derek’s throat, and his grasp tightens on Stiles’ hips, fingers squeezing slightly. This is actually pretty easy, and Stiles falls into the flow of it, kissing Derek devouringly, like a starving man. And to his credit, Derek matches the fervor flawlessly. They’re pretty perfect together, if Stiles can say so himself.

Is this why Scott’s so freaking obsessed with Allison? _God_ , Stiles has really been missing out.

He forgets that he’s supposed to be breathing through his nose ― hey, it’s his first time, cut him some slack ― and he pulls back, breathless. His eyes flutter open, and he finds Derek staring up at him, eyes more intense than Stiles has ever seen them, open and full of raw passion. It sends a shiver down Stiles’ spine.

“Was that okay?” he asks anxiously.

“Exactly what I needed,” Derek says. Stiles doesn’t miss the fact that he keeps using that word ― _need_. Like Stiles is a commodity that Derek can’t possibly imagine being without. Like he’s as important to Derek as the air he breathes.

Stiles grins sheepishly, lowering his gaze and feeling like a goof. At least he understands why Scott acts like such a dope whenever Allison is brought up. He feels a little light-headed and a little giddy, like the time he stole his father’s whiskey and got drunk on it with Scott, but he doesn’t even care. This is _great_.

“Can I do it again?”

“You can do it whenever you want,” Derek says.

Still grinning, Stiles starts to lean in again. But then he stops and pulls back a little. He cringes slightly. “No, but seriously, who’s getting the keys. Will keys rust in the rain? What if I lose them?”

“I’m not getting them,” Derek says, shaking his head.

“But you’re the one who threw them!”

“If _I’m_ not getting them, and _you’re_ not getting them, then it looks like we’re trapped here in the Jeep. Again. And we might be here for a while.”

Stiles laughs. He can’t even be mad about it ― to hell with his keys, he doesn’t care. Nothing else matters except Derek right now. He’s solid and he’s warm beneath Stiles, and his eyes don’t look tortured or tragic like usual, but happy and open. His gaze is fixed on Stiles, and he stares at him almost like he can’t believe he’s there. Like he’s afraid if he blinks, Stiles might disappear into nothingness.

“What? Why are you looking at me like that?” Stiles asks, as paranoid as ever.

“Maybe I just like it when you laugh,” Derek says. A slow, almost shy smile spreads across his features, and Stiles unintentionally tightens his hold on Derek’s shoulders, feeling stupidly excited that he’s gotten Derek to smile.

“Well, I like it when _you_ smile,” he says, and it’s corny and stupid, but wonderful at the same time.

He moves his hands from Derek’s shoulders timidly, and he cups the sides of Derek’s neck. Then his hands move again, and he somehow finds himself running his fingers through Derek’s surprisingly soft hair. Derek doesn’t say anything, and he just watches Stiles’ face, like he’s trying to memorize every single detail ― it’s enough to make a guy feel right insecure, that’s for sure.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Stiles says.

“Don’t order me around.”

Somehow, Stiles’ fingers have ended up behind Derek’s ears, and he rubs absently. A noise of contentment leaves Derek, and Stiles guffaws, not even trying to stop himself.

“Are you _serious_? You actually like me scratching you behind the ears?” he asks.

Derek scowls, and he reaches up with his own hands. His fingers stroke Stiles behind the ears, rubbing the sides of his head lightly, and Stiles lets out a breathy ‘ _Ohhh_.’ He laughs a little, grabbing Derek’s wrists and pulling his hands down and away before any more humiliating sounds leave Stiles. “I guess that does feel kind of good.”

What he does next comes natural to him ― he doesn’t even have to think about it. He leans in and bumps his nose against Derek’s affectionately, and before he can be embarrassed by it, another sound of contentment wells in Derek’s chest. Stiles laughs again, he just can’t help it ― it’s golden the way Derek is acting now, like a big fluffy puppy instead of the Alpha that he is. And only Stiles gets to see this side of him. Not his betas, not Scott, not any of the others in the pack but Stiles.

He feels like he’ll never stop smiling.

“You like that too?” he asks incredulously.

Instead of saying anything, Derek is suddenly kissing him again. And in a moment, Stiles forgets what the question even was that he had asked.

 

_Cherish who you have to hold, ‘cause they won’t always be there for you.  
Naked here and vulnerable; yeah you’re fragile. And I am too.  
So don’t go looking for the days you’ve lost.  
‘Cause you’ve got so much more to give before you now….  
_ _In this wild place.  
_ _― **Glass Pear**_


End file.
